


Tenshi, Ningen, Akuma, Spy

by ryukoishida



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, Multi, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bushido is a private spy organization created based on the traditional virtues of the samurai warriors; their major value is loyalty and honour. So when partner field agents, Tachibana Makoto and Matsuoka Rin, are turned against each other under the influence of a chemical weapon, their handler Haruka is forced to make a difficult decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenshi, Ningen, Akuma, Spy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by “Kingsman: the Secret Service”. Because everyone needs hot swimmer boys wearing suits and wielding swords, right? I, ah, misinterpreted something in the instructions so the prompt is very, very loosely applied here.

“Archangel, Daemon, what the hell are you two doing?” Nanase Haruka snaps into the mouthpiece attached to his headphones, one side cupping his ear and the other scrunching up the ink-black hair near the back of his head. A hint of incredulity crawls into his usually collected voice.

 

As the video streams from their glasses, which display what the two agents are seeing and transmit them in real-time to Bushido’s HQ as other technical assistants and handlers run around or tap busily on their laptops for updates from various missions all over the globe, Haruka adjusts his headphones and releases a slow, steady exhale through his teeth.

 

The overhead monitor in the room is showing a magnificent hotel hall, chandeliers dangling dazzlingly from the ceiling, which are about the only inanimate objects that seem to have escaped undamaged at the moment, while tables and chairs have been overturned or broken in various degrees, shattered glasses and antique dishes litter the lushly carpeted floor.

 

Dead bodies donned in rich garments and accessories, supposedly patrons of some sort of party that has been taking place before this entire nightmare started some ten minutes ago, also strewn across the floor. Some look like they’ve simply fallen over with a gunshot wound meticulously placed in the temples or directly on their foreheads, and heads smashed into gory messes with hard and breakable items easily grabbed from the dining tables, shards of glass or earthenware embedded into skin like pinpricks of bleeding stars, while others are in different states of dismemberment. 

 

“Kicking this motherfucker’s ass,” the redhead in the video huffs out as he crouches down to duck an incoming attack that involves a blade hidden in the sole of the other man’s expensive leather oxfords cutting it very close to his face. He feels a slice of heat – barely registers it when he blinks at the flash of silver – before slick wetness begins to trickle down.

 

Straightening up with a grimace, he wipes at his cheek gingerly with the back of his hand, staining the cuff of his pristine white shirt a bright crimson. When he sees red streaks on his fingers, the glimmer in his claret irises darkens into a menacing shade, his split lips pulled back to reveal two rows of shark-like teeth grinning with a silent threat.

 

His eyes are trained on the man who has almost disfigured his face when he tugs his maroon tie off the collar of his blood-spattered shirt and casts the offensive piece of fabric off to the side, his fingers quickly unfastening the top two buttons to reveal pale throat and collarbone. The staggering contrast of light and negative space across his skin is mesmerizingly elegant.

 

“You,” he glares up through the mess of his fiery red bangs, sticky with blood and sweat, and he combs them back with his hand before pulling out a pair of Kisaki Moroha tanto from the inside of his navy double-breasted pin-striped suit jacket, the fabric of which perfectly accentuates the man’s feline grace and highlights every lithe movement of his arms without hindering him as he unsheathes the short swords, the silken hiss of reinforced steel caressing intimately against the pliant wooden scabbard a familiar tune to his ears as he grips the black lacquered hilt so that the points are directed at the ground, the slight curve of the double-edged blades radiating a hint of blue under the glaring white of the overhead light fixtures.

 

“You are mine…” he whispers, lips curling into a smirk laced with deadly promises of agony and torture. His eyes are glowing unnaturally red, like a demon on rampage, euphoric and intoxicated from the chaos and scent of spilled blood.

 

Eyeing the weapons that he knows would inflict a high amount of damage under the redhead’s capable hands, the brunet shuffles a small, careful step back. Watchful green eyes flicker to meet the other man’s gaze, whose irises are washed bright crimson with the passion to kill and annihilate, and he knows he’s running out of options.

 

The sole of his shoe crunches bits of glass in its wake, and the sound is thunderous among this sudden stagnant silence void of the screams of dying, well-dressed individuals and the melodic jangle of breaking glass and luxurious dishes.

 

“Daemon,” he shouts his partner’s code name in warning, and then soft and cautious, volume barely above a whisper as his eyes plead with him silently to return, he calls out his name, defense crumbling piece by piece, “Rin.”

 

The redhead remains still as a statue, though his expression might have wavered with recognition at the sound of his name, but it passes as soon as it arrives, piercing eyes glaring at him with such cold fury that the brunet’s skin is crawling with dread. His blades are poised and legs spread apart with his knees bent in readiness to engage in a fight.

 

His fingers curl loosely around the hilt of his own weapon, a specially forged multi-purpose katana strapped to his waist, when Rin doesn’t reply or give the sign that he’s acknowledging him.

 

“Makoto, what’s happening down there?” He hears his handler’s voice from his earpiece, and can tell from the slight quiver of his question and the mere fact that he has abandoned his code name in favor of calling him by his real name – something that shouldn’t happen during a mission, a sign of weakness, of unprofessional behavior that on any other day, the dark-haired man will not make the mistake of doing – that Haruka is starting to worry, though he’ll never admit so.  

 

“I-I don’t know,” Makoto murmurs as he continues to keep a careful lookout of Rin’s figure for the slightest hint of movement, his grip on the katana tightens as seconds tick by and the silence of the room thickens, almost stifling with the metallic tang of blood, tear flesh, and broken bones. “One moment we were searching for our target, and the next, all the attendants started going for each other’s throats and someone fired a damn gun, and then Rin –– ”

 

But he doesn’t get to finish his report, which is fine because Haruka has seen what has happened through the video stream; what’s not fine at the moment is Rin charging towards Makoto at full force, short swords wielded by nimble and powerful hands, the blades’ tips facing his opponent with a perilous twinkle along their edges.

 

With a shrill _clang_ of metal against metal that makes Haruka winces and his ears ring, Makoto pulls out his sword in a flash of silver, groaning with effort when he barely manages to block Rin’s attack. The defensive stance doesn’t deter the redhead though, as he continues to advance, pushing Makoto back one step at a time and placing all his weight into the smaller knives that are still in contact with Makoto’s katana blade, neither of them yielding to the other even though it’s quite clear that Makoto is at a disadvantage in terms of both weaponry and motivation.

 

Some unknown force is driving his partner insane with the desire to kill, and Makoto can only watch, blade perched in a constant protective stance, which allows Rin to keep attacking him from all directions with the quick darts and fluid cuts of his twin tanto. The furious dance that delivers blood shed and possibility of death keeps Makoto in check, but his hands refuse to do more than just blocking his partner’s increasingly ferocious assault, each slash more vicious than the last. Makoto can feel shallow gashes on his cheeks and the sleeves of his charcoal blazer, slivers of the lavish fabric float to the ground and soaking in stranger’s blood.

 

“Rin!” Makoto yells, breathless, his fingers becoming numb from the vibrations of the hilt as their blades continue to clash messily in the air, all finesse gone when Rin finally decides that cutting him is simply not enough. “Rin, goddamnit, will you just stop and listen for a minute?”

 

Rin pauses, his chest heaving as he takes a few tentative steps back. Other than the shallow cut on his cheek that has stopped bleeding, along his legs where Makoto has managed to slice through with the hidden blades in his shoes are the only damage he has sustained. Blood is tainting the grey of his wool-flannel trousers into maroon, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all.  

 

“It’s no use,” Haruka informs him, tone flat, and Makoto hates the hopelessness in it, refuses to let himself drown in an endless cycle of negative thoughts, a world where Rin truly becomes his namesake – an unfeeling demon whose only drive is chaos and destruction, where his cold heart will have no room for Makoto’s warm affection or Haruka’s calming presence. “I’m still searching for the cause, but whatever it is, it seems to have affected everyone in this room but you.”

 

But it just doesn’t make any sense when a group of human beings just seemingly decides as one entity to cast off the restrictions of society that prohibit them from committing crimes like punching another person in the face or stabbing at someone’s neck with the stem of a broken champagne flute. It’s as if a switch in their bodies has been flicked on with a remote control, and the thought of losing Rin and Makoto to some unseen apparition that can so easily manipulate human nature is unthinkable even for a second.

 

“Archangel…” Haruka’s voice hardens, closing his eyes as he calls his code name again, the cold, rational tone seeping back in just as easily as it has dissipated before. “When the time comes, you need to cut him loose.” The command leaves a vehement taste on his tongue and it’s only spreading as he witnesses the effect his judgment has on the brown-haired agent.

 

“Haru! You can’t…” Makoto’s shaking, evident in the small tremors trilling along the sharp edge of his katana, and he can’t even finish what he’s trying to say because what else can he do in this situation? He bites down on his lower lip hard enough to hurt, hard enough to draw blood.

 

“Listen to me. Until I find the cause and solution to this, keep fighting. But it looks like whatever’s causing the increase in Rin’s tendency for violence has no effect on his physical conditions; I’m still tracking his stats through his watch, and his strength and agility are only growing as the fight persists,” Haruka pauses, hands halted over his keyboard as he arranges the words in his head carefully before delivering them. “Archangel, kindness will only kill you.”

 

“You’re too cold,” he smiles, but there’s no warmth or sincerity behind the curve of his lips as his eyes turn a wintry green – a hue that Haruka despises because it means the brunet is upset (no, _disappointed_ , Haruka thinks and his chest tightens, knowing well that he’s the cause of it).

 

“I’m only human,” Haruka replies in a leveled tone, turning away from the overhead monitors, away from the desolate anguish on Makoto’s face and the merciless brutality in Rin’s eyes, unfitted for his lovers and partners. “I’m trying to save you.”

 

“What about Rin?” His voice is inching towards hysterics, and Haruka is about to tell him to calm down when Rin takes the chance when Makoto is still distracted to leap into action, running towards him and hands flipping the blades around so that he has his thumbs pressed on the pommels, tips aimed towards the brunet.

 

“Fuck,” Makoto blanches at the incoming attack, limps stunned frozen for a second too long. He knows he can’t use his sword unless he wishes to seriously wound his partner; he knows his legs won’t carry him fast enough but he forces himself to dash out of the way as quickly as he can, his gaze following the tracks of the small, silver blades as they sail straight for his heart and head.

 

“Makoto!” Haruka shoots up from his seat in alarm, arm reaching up towards the screen and hand coming out empty.

 

They are miles away and he’s tucked here inside the safe fortress of Bushido’s HQ, powerless as an unarmed child, defenseless as a naïve novice. This is one of the moments when he wishes more than anything that he’s fighting alongside his teammates, but having less-than-ideal physical attributes, he understood years ago since the three of them had graduated from the acclaimed training program that his talents lie in technological development and behind-the-scenes navigation, and that he’ll only be dragging the other two down if he joins the field. Still…  

 

His heart is thudding hard against his ribcage as if it’s dying to escape, blood roaring in his ears when he hears the unmistakable grunt from Makoto hitting the ground and barely avoiding Rin’s attack as he rolls to the side.

 

When he manages to pick himself up from the ground, Haruka realizes that if Makoto had moved away a second too late, the blades would have found their intended targets.

 

As Rin situates himself before the injured agent once more, with extra blades that he keeps pocketed in the inside of his jacket reloaded onto the knives’ collars, Haruka can see through Rin’s glasses-camera that Makoto is struggling to stand upright, one knife having found its way embedded in his upper arm close to his shoulder, and the other having sliced a gash across the flesh of his right cheek, rivulets of blood streaming down his face, along the length of his neck and soaking the white collar of his shirt a bright red.

 

His hand is slippery from the blood that’s running down his injured arm, and as he attempts to support himself against the wall, traces of maroon marred the immaculate ivory wall behind his crouched figure. Makoto swallows with difficulty, face ghostly ashen with the rapid loss of blood and his breaths shallow and rapid, sword held loosely within his grasp.

 

It looks like he’ll collapse any second, and all that’s holding him up is his own sheer will.

 

“Makoto, you have to go,” Haruka gathers his fingers into fists and he can’t stop the tremors of his arms. His entire frame is quivering from tension – fear for Makoto’s safety and guilt for even contemplating leaving Rin behind drown out the rationality in his mind, and he can’t breathe, barely hanging on to the thread of hope that he will at least get Makoto out.

 

The brunet doesn’t reply, lips pursed into a tight, straight line as he continues to push himself up, using the length of his blade as a crutch.

 

‘Stubborn,’ Haruka thinks, heart clenching painfully. ‘Loyal to a fault.’ But isn’t that just one of the many reasons why he has fallen for his best friend? How can he blame the man for the trait that inexplicably defines who he is?

 

And what of Rin? Even though the two men have been rivals since the first day of training, they have come to respect each other in their own fields of expertise, and through years of cooperation during vexing missions, they have eventually formed an unbreakable friendship that has somehow developed into a bond that’s much deeper, stronger. Is Haruka ready to throw that precious link – the often times hotheaded but always skillful agent he so proudly calls his teammate and lover – away?

 

“Aww, don’t tell me you’re already thinking of quitting, Haru-chan,” a muffled voice, bubbly and all too cheerful, such a stark contrast to the current situation that for a moment Haruka thinks he must be experiencing some strange hallucination created by stress until another window pops up on the overhead monitor, displaying a man with obnoxious turfs of pink hair and striking violet eyes gleaming with a dangerous mixture of intelligence and mischief. The lower half of his face is hidden behind what appears to be a gas mask, the black, weighty metal filter distorting the stranger’s voice slightly, but Haruka can recognize it even on his deathbed. “The fun has just started!”

 

“Shigino Kisumi!” His voice shakes when the name pours out of his mouth, bitter and foul like poison, and the quiet trembling of anger just detectable roiling beneath the surface of his voice doesn’t escape the pink-haired man, who seems to be thrilled by Haruka’s visible display of rage. “What did you do to them?”    

 

“Do you like this setup? I did spend a long time perfecting the concoction, you know, though this is simply just a small experiment to test it out. The result is so much more interesting than I have previously anticipated. I’m glad.” Instead of answering Haruka’s question, Kisumi drawls on as if they’re having a pleasant conversation about the weather over coffee.

 

Haruka can imagine all too clearly the smug, lazy smirk grazing the man’s lips, but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. In fact, he’s kind of glad that Kisumi decides to show his face at the time he did because whether or not he’s doing it on purpose, the man is giving him hints. He gets the feeling that he’s being toyed with, but any clues he’s been given, Haruka is willing to make good use of it.

 

His fingers begin to type furiously on autopilot, and the other monitors respond by having windows popping up with towers of information, which Haruka tries to process as swiftly as his eyes and brain allow while still listening to Kisumi over his headphones. 

 

“It’s too bad I don’t get to see your expression, Haru. I can only imagine what your face must look like right now: that cute little worried frown you wear, the way you bite your lower lip until it turns so temptingly red and raw, the beautiful flush on your cheeks when you get annoyed…” Kisumi chuckles with a tinkling, delicate sound, obviously enjoying the image his mind is conjuring up.

 

Haruka manages to hack into the hotel’s security system and is now watching the hall from various angles of the room. Amongst the chaotic destruction the hall has undergone, the dark-haired man spots his target hidden in a dark corner: a slim-figured man with pink locks donning a gas mask and holding his cellphone, the slender shape of his body emphasized by the elegant trim of his pastel blue, white, and black tartan trousers, a charcoal dress shirt coupled with a periwinkle silk tie and bruised-plum cardigan that stretches snugly across his shoulders.

 

“Do you have any idea how much of a creep you sound like? I can charge you for sexual harassment just from what you’ve said,” Haruka informs him coolly, a solution already taking shape as he continues to survey the situation from the multiple monitors before him. His heart has calmed down significantly once he has devised a plan, and he is merely waiting for the perfect moment to execute it.

 

It’s a territory he feels safe and familiar in. Haruka only hopes that Makoto and Rin can hold on until then.

 

“You’re as cold as ever, Haru!” Kisumi whines, and then his voice drops down a notch as if he’s telling Haruka a dirty secret meant to be only shared between them, but the trace of dark amusement in his timbre does not go unnoticed by Haruka. “I thought it’d be really fun to watch you watching your loved ones hurting each other, and I’m right, aren’t I? You’re suffering, aren’t you?” He pauses here, waiting for Haruka’s reaction, perhaps, but he’s not going to give the other man the satisfaction.

 

Kisumi, however, is undeterred by Haruka’s lack of response.

 

“But I’m honestly surprised – I suppose Makoto does live by the advocacy of his namesake, huh? The perfect Archangel, indeed – one of God’s holy and pure celestial soldiers, possessing a spirit benevolent and untainted by any sins or temptations. I wonder what’s inside his brain that makes him remain unaffected…” Kisumi turns to stare longingly at the man who has finally succeeded in standing upright, sword poised weakly in front of him and legs shaking in an effort to support his body; by now, his blood has soaked through the layers of his suit, and Makoto looks like he might faint any second, his breathing so labored that Haruka can see his chest rising and falling raggedly. “Maybe I should have him cut open so I can take a good, long look at it.”

 

Haruka knows the man is just taunting him with his cheap words; he knows it but it doesn’t make him any less furious. He tightens his lips into a firm line, fingernails digging into his palms with such force that they’re leaving half-moon impressions on his skin.

 

“I don’t think he’s going to last,” Kisumi starts again, and a sly smile is audible in his playful tone. “Should I tell Rin to finish him off? I don’t think he’ll make him endure too much pain; after all, they are in love with each other.” He sounds absolutely delighted now, as if nothing would give him more pleasure than having Haruka’s two lovers fight to the death.

 

It’s time, Haruka thinks, fixing his microphone and clicking a button on his screen to ensure that only Makoto can hear his instructions.

 

“Makoto, are you with me?”

 

The brunet licks his dry lips, and nods.

 

“Listen carefully, I think I know what’s going on. Shigino Kisumi is involved in this all along; the man we were initially after must be one of his underlings that he’s planned to spare just to lure us out,” Haruka watches the screen and sees another nod from him. “Shigino has released some sort of chemical weapon into the hall – some cocktail that’s racking up the levels of certain neurotransmitters that heighten the tendency of aggression –– ”

 

“So I just need to take Rin out of this room, correct?” Makoto murmurs without waiting for Haruka’s explanation.

 

They never really need many words to understand each other. That’s why the three of them have earned the title of the “Holy Triad” within Bushido: Makoto the Archangel who kills with a good heart and pure intentions of serving the country, Rin the Daemon who slaughters with immaculate skills and a selfish desire to protect his loved ones, and dwelling on Earth is Haruka the Man who serves as the golden connection between Heaven and Hell. The name has started out as a joke, but the high success rate of their missions has proven again and again that they deserve the grand title.

 

“Preferably out of the building,” Haruka adds, already pulling out the blueprint of the structure in preparation for directing Makoto out of the crowded hotel, probably filled with more civilians who are either ignorant of what’s happening in the grand hall or have already been affected by the same chemicals.

 

“Roger that.” Makoto squares his shoulders, green eyes sharp and cautious as he tightens his grip on his katana, the blade perched in front of him in a long, diagonal line that enables him to defend or attack depending on his opponent’s movements.

 

Rin seems more than willing to rise to the challenge as he, too, lifts his two tanto knives up to guard the sides of his face. The eager expression is not unlike a predator ready to strike for the kill.

 

“Sorry, Rin,” Makoto apologizes softly, so soft that Rin probably can’t hear him from that distance, but if what Haruka’s told him is true, then there’s very little chance that the redhead is comprehending the current situation anyway.

 

Rin growls menacingly and starts to charge forward headlong, eyes glowing raw red and unconcerned for his own safety.

 

As he comes closer, Makoto patiently waits for the right moment just when Rin has an opening, and he throws his katana tip-first towards the red-haired man aiming for his left shoulder. Precisely as he’s predicted, Rin swivels quickly to dodge the incoming blade that barely grazes his jacket sleeve, his vulnerable back exposed, and it’s the few seconds of delay that Makoto requires for him to whip out his titanium alloyed scabbard from his waist, aim for the nape of Rin’s neck, and activate the trigger, sending a shot filled with a dose of tranquilizer straight at Rin, who’s still attempting to regain his momentum from before.

 

With a surprised moan followed by a bodily thud, Rin hits the floor and the knives clatter among the broken glass on the ground.

 

On the other side of the receiver, Haruka hears Kisumi’s resigned sigh, and from the security cameras, he can see that the pink-haired man is exiting the hall in a leisurely pace.

 

“You’re no fun, Haru, but don’t think I won’t come back for a second round,” is the chirpy farewell Kisumi offers him before the line goes dead.

 

In a sea of corpses that reeked of metallic tang and expensive perfumes, and broken furniture and dishes that glitter like cheap stars under the gleam of the chandeliers, Makoto slowly makes his way towards his fallen comrade and sinks to his knees by his side. He lays his head on Rin’s chest for a few brief seconds, inhaling deeply when he feels the weak pulses of his heartbeat, and a sob escapes past his throat.

 

Only now, when the danger has truly passed does Makoto allow himself to cry: half of it stems from the frustration at his own incompetence, and the other half from having to witness his best friend and lover almost driven to insanity and death by the innate desire to kill.

 

It’s all too much, and he wants nothing more than to return home.

 

-

 

Rin is the first to wake.

 

And the first thing he notices is how fucking painful everything is. His head is pounding with an insurmountable migraine, his arms and legs feel like they aren’t his own, and the back of his neck is tender and scorching when he tries to turn his head to the side, as if someone has hit him very hard from behind.

 

“What the fuck…” He moans in a dry, gravelly voice, blinking groggily when the bright white of the light fixtures on the ceiling forces him to screw his eyes shut again.

 

“Rin.” A soft murmur, and then a light, feathery touch on the unscathed part of his cheek. He winces at the contact anyway, which causes a domino effect for all the surrounding muscles, because shit, _that_ really fucking hurts.

 

“Sorry,” the person retreats his hand hastily, and silence descends again.

 

“Haru,” he calls weakly, his cracked lips and dry throat making it difficult to speak, but he tries to open his eyes and has to blink rapidly for a few seconds before he’s adjusted to the brightness of the room. The ceiling stares back at him, cold and bland.

 

“I’m here,” he says, and he feels more than hears the words breathed against the skin on the back of his hand, where he knows an IV needle is embedded.

 

“Where’s Makoto?”

 

He tries to sit up, gasping in agony when his entire body below his neck screams in protest, and Haruka has to gently place his hands on his shoulders to keep him lying down; it won’t do him any good to jostle around too much and reopen his wounds.

 

“Maybe you should worry about yourself first,” Haruka tells him, not really meeting his eyes though Rin doesn’t seem to notice. “You’ve been out for almost twenty-four hours.”

 

“Shit, that long?”

 

Haruka nods, about to open his mouth to say something, but clamps up again. Instead, he pours out half a glass of water, and silently supports Rin by the back of his head as he tips the glass to let a small stream of water slip into his parched lips.

 

After a few tentative sips, Rin nods his thanks and the dark-haired man places the glass on the bedside table. Blue eyes shift to his lap where his hands are overlapped, a finger restlessly tapping on his thigh.

 

Even though he feels as if his throat is still on fire and he wants to ask for more pain meds to dull the ache that’s traveling throughout his entire body, the redhead can see that something is bothering his handler, so with a scratchy voice dragging on sand, he clears his throat and starts, “Whatever it is, just spit it out.”

 

“Rin, I’m sorry.” Haruka’s eyes flicker, broken blue meeting bright crimson, and it’s the shade of red he loves, no longer affected by a feverish yearning to kill and only filled with pure curiosity and slight confusion.

 

“Hah?” If his face muscles still know how to work without such agony, his thin brows would be arching up in that bitingly sarcastic way of his. “I think I’ve been sleeping for so long that my brain has gone slow, but can you please clarify what the fuck are you apologizing to me for?”

 

“Do you remember what happened?”

 

The question makes Rin pause. The memory is hazy and the sound clouded to an aqueous blur like being underwater, yet it’s slowly surging back in clearer lines and palettes, the sounds of chaos, like some kind of warzone of gun shots, sharp peals of metal grating against metal, and civilians screaming in pain and growling like wild animals, swirling in his head in a tornado of sounds and colours.

 

“Rin?” Haruka touches the inside of his wrist.

 

He opens his eyes – doesn’t realize when he has let them close – and he turns to face Haruka, his face pale and horror-stricken. “I… I tried to kill Makoto, didn’t I?” He whispers, words trembling and frail like autumn leaves barely hanging on in a winter gale.

 

“You were under influence of a chemical that you’ve inhaled,” Haruka quickly reminds him, fingers wrapping protectively around his wrist, the warmth of his palm seeping into his skin but it doesn’t calm the rising bile from the pit of his stomach, the very real possibility that he could have killed his partner and lover by his own two hands making him shake with fear and nausea. “Rin, it’s not your fault, okay? Makoto is not going to blame you for this, do you understand?”

 

Rin’s frantic eyes find Haruka’s calming ones, and the azure irises are emanating such conviction and a roaring love so silent and raw and honest that it breaks Rin’s heart a little whenever Haruka unravels like this, lets him see this vulnerable side of him like this.

 

“How do you know that?” His gaze returns to the ceiling and its blinding florescent lights. He releases a slow breath, eyes slipping closed. The nightmare, once restored, does not leave him be: Makoto’s call for him, the anguish on his partner’s face when he refused to listen to reason, and the injuries Rin’s inflicted on his flesh – the red behind his eyelids more vivid than it has any right to be, viscous and slick to the touch, the coppery scent crawling into his nostrils and makes him think of an ocean of blood and mangled corpses.

 

Rin swallows thickly, feels sand particles scraping against the sensitive nerves of his larynx. “He probably wants nothing to do with me after this fucking mess. I mean, I did try to stab him a couple of times. I wouldn’t date someone who tries to kill me.” He tries to make a light matter out of it, but the joke sounds even hollower when spoken out loud.  

 

“How about try asking the concerned party here?” A feeble voice reaches them from the other side of the curtain that separates Rin’s bed and his neighbor’s.

 

After Haruka pulls the pale blue fabric aside to reveal a bedridden Makoto bandaged almost from head to toe with only a threadbare hospital gown splayed loosely across his back and over his shoulders, exposing tanned skin of his abdomen kissed by plum-toned bruises and his heavily-dressed left shoulder where one of Rin’s blades has impaled.

 

Haruka gingerly slips his hand into Makoto’s, and with a soft smile only marred by a slight grimace of pain from the small movement, his fingers enclose around the slighter man’s hand. “Haru-chan,” he murmurs, tired green eyes blinking up at him.

 

“How long have you been up anyway?” Rin asks, and adds with a blush tinting his cheeks, which is not good for the gashes there but whatever. Makoto’s awake and he seems to be all right save for the numerous cuts and bruises that will eventually heal in time; and that’s all that matters, isn’t it? “Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

 

“You were loud,” Makoto counters smoothly. “And you’re wrong.”

 

“I–– ”

 

“Shut up and listen,” he takes a shuddering breath through his nose and continues when Rin is shocked into silence by the fact that his boyfriend has actually commanded him to shut his trap with no remorse whatsoever. “You didn’t intend to kill me; it’s the chemical that Shigino created that messed up your brain, so you have nothing to apologize for.”

 

“I did hurt you though,” Rin stares pointedly at the brunet and all the injuries he has sustained.

 

“So did I,” Makoto says.

 

Rin can’t find any other reasons for rebuttal, and the brunet seems strangely smug about it. “So stop blaming yourself and get better soon so you can come over here and kiss me properly.” 

 

He pauses for a good, long minute, mulling over Makoto’s words, and decides at last that his boyfriend, as in most cases, is right. “Fine.”

 

This acceptance doesn’t stop the nightmares that come at him almost every night after the mission, but it does help that in a few months’ time, when they are both released from the hospital, that Rin can find refuge in Makoto’s arms whenever he wakes up in cold sweat and the remnants of fragmented, bloody scenes fade into the cold darkness of the night.

 

“I also need to apologize to you, Makoto, for giving you that order.”

 

“Don’t start, Haru,” Makoto is saying at the same moment that Rin asks, “What order?”

 

Makoto purses his lips, but his eyes are telling Haruka to take care with his next words.

 

He chooses to tell Rin the truth, and with the weight over his heart that threatens to suffocate him alive, he turns to the redhead who continues to look utterly lost.

 

“When you were… acting under the effect of the drug and attacking Makoto, I told him to let you go when the situation escalated to a point that would endanger his own safety. I…” He exhales in a soft snarl, frustration taking shape in the frown of his brows and nails digging into his palm on the hand that isn’t held by the brunet. “I didn’t know the cause of your sudden aggression, Rin, and for the benefit of Bushido, I decided to save at least one of you knowing that I can’t save you both, so I ordered Makoto to cut you loose, and you were right, Makoto, I’m cold and I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

 

“Wrong again,” Makoto tells him without hesitation.

 

“I concur,” Rin pipes up, and despite the ache that skips along his arm, he reaches over to take Haruka’s hand in his. He stares at their linked hands, and glances over to the redhead who’s grinning at him.

 

“You’re just doing your job – what you’re best at. I didn’t listen to you because I was a stubborn and sentimental fool, and I know that you wouldn’t have given me that order unless you have considered all the available options and presumed them to be impractical.” Haruka shivers as he feels Makoto’s thumb rubbing comforting circles on the back of his hand. “And Haru, I believed with all my heart that you would have found a way out for both of our sakes eventually; I was just waiting for you to come around.”

 

“You shouldn’t give away your life so easily into someone else’s hands,” Haruka mutters, but he appreciates his words nevertheless. Makoto always knows the right thing to say.

 

“I’m giving it to you for safekeeping,” Makoto smiles, and it’s brilliant and sincere and everything Haruka doesn’t deserve – not after all that has happened.

 

“To be honest, I feel a little miffed that you’d have so little faith in me,” Rin’s statement startles Haruka but he isn’t going to let his handler interrupt without voicing out his side first. “But if I were in your position, I probably would have done the same thing. It can’t be an easy decision for you to make, and we’d never fault you for putting Bushido before us. We swore on our graduation day that we’d dedicate the rest of our lives for the righteousness and justice of humanity, didn’t we? We are ready to throw our lives away at any given moment but it doesn’t mean that we have to do so without fighting back to our best abilities, and like Makoto has said, we trust you and follow your directions because we know you’ll always bring us back safe and sound.”

 

“I felt so useless back there… alone and unable to help you two or fight by your side.” His trembling starts from his hands, still in Rin and Makoto’s grasp as they watch with widened eyes, and travels up to his shoulders when he lowers his head.

 

A moment later, they hear sniffles, and a tear falls from eyes hidden by a curtain of blue-black hair, staining his jeans dark, and then another, and another until he’s gasping for air, the quiet crying becoming sobs that uncontrollably shake his entire frame. The two men stuck in their respective beds can only watch on in a silent mixture of astonishment and distress as they witness the rare scene of Haruka letting go of his iron defenses and crumbling down like a sandcastle that deteriorates little by little within the loving arms of a slow-rising tide reined by moonlight.

 

When Haruka has calmed down again, some five or so minutes later during which none of them has dared to speak a word, he raises his head, eyes reddened, lashes pearled with tiny droplets of his tears, and cheeks blotchy with tear tracks still staining his skin.

 

“But we’ve always been here,” Makoto gently reminds him, picking up from where they left off. His fingers tighten around Haruka’s smaller hand in an unspoken reassurance.

 

“And we’ll always return to your side,” Rin promises, squeezing Haruka’s other hand.

 

“Okay,” Haruka’s voice cracks, and it’s so incredibly easy to let himself fall back into this dynamics they have constructed through years of friendship and collaboration and the occasional disputes that always end well. He rises to his feet, first planting a kiss on Makoto’s forehead and then another one on the crown of Rin’s head, which is about the only part of his body that’s remained unharmed.

 

What the three men share is an alliance forged by long-time camaraderie and a kind of affection and harmony that transcends the boundary of brotherhood and companionship, an intimate triumvirate relationship that many either misunderstand or refuse to comprehend, and that’s just fine with them.

 

That’s fine with them as long as they have each other: engaging in battles where they might lost their lives, and out of the prying eyes of public, entangling within each other so deeply and irrevocably that there’s no way to unravel them.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not sure how I feel about this piece? The idea sounded really good in my head, but whatever. Just whatever. I hope y’all enjoy this anyway!


End file.
